


Please Use Your Damn Turn Signal

by mindshelter



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen, Human Disaster Peter Parker, Humor, Some Fluff, dumb father-son shenanigans, tony tells a terrible dad joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 11:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20446532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindshelter/pseuds/mindshelter
Summary: “My palms are sweating,” Peter says. “The steering wheel is wet. My shirt is wet and I am sticky.”Yeah, Tony can tell. There’s spots where Peter’s navy t-shirt are a little darker, evidently damp. As insultingly warm as it is outside, the car AC is on full blast and even with a blazer it’s almost enough to make Tony shiver.But boy is the kid ever sweaty, despite the fact that he’s been weaving through intersections and practicing turns, lane switching – whatever else – for the past half-hour without any major hitches.Exasperated but fond, he tells Peter just that.“Mr. Stark, the first time I drove I flipped the car over.”What?“What?”(tony gives peter driving lessons.)





	Please Use Your Damn Turn Signal

**Author's Note:**

> peter: i have no fear
> 
> may: i want you to get your license 
> 
> peter: i have 1 fear 
> 
> (set between hoco and infinity war!)

Peter slams the brake _hard_, sending both himself and Tony, who’s riding shotgun, surging forward. The seatbelt locks a few more centimetres down so neither of them hit the dashboard, and both of them settle back into their seats with a jolt.

Safety regulations have come a long way.

The kid is a real sight, right now, staring at the road in front of him, expression crazed. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

“So, for future reference,” Tony says, “keep your eyes on the traffic lights so you don’t stop like that at a red light. Sort of – ease your foot down on the pedal and slow down gradually.”

“Okay,” Peter says, disconcertingly still. His death-grip has not loosened one bit. “Okay, okay.”

The light switches to green, but the car doesn’t move.

“Peter,” Tony says.

Peter hastily moves his foot to the accelerator and again, pushes down too hard. The car engine growls and the action jostles the two some more.

“Like I said, ease into it. That goes for speeding up _and_ slowing down.”

“Okay,” Peter mumbles. Tony reaches over to adjust Peter’s steering and help him stay in the lane. The car behind them honks.

It’s a lie to say that Tony’s not sure how he ended up here. He does know; his mouth had somehow suggested he teach Peter how to drive before his brain was fully cognizant of what he was getting himself into.

It hadn’t really been a necessity for Peter to learn how to drive, as shoddy as New York transit was – he got around just fine within city limits by foot and train. But he was sixteen now, as of last week, and May had insisted that it’s a valuable life skill Peter ought to learn at some point. Better now than later.

With about two weeks of summer left, Peter had a good chunk of free time left to nail the basics.

To the kid’s credit, navigating New York traffic is very, very low on the list of ideal environments to practice operating heavy machinery. Close to rock bottom, really, since it’s peak tourist season.

But Tony had figured Peter wouldn’t be so high-strung about the whole thing, considering that his preferred mode of transport was swinging from high-rises, hundreds of feet in the air at literal breakneck speeds.

Maybe they should go somewhere less busy.

“Okay, how about you go right at the next intersection?” Tony suggests. That’ll get them off the bigger roads, let Peter breathe a bit.

Peter lets out a strangled, warbly noise. With more effort and struggle than Tony had anticipated, Peter pries his fingers off the wheel to activate the turn signal. 

It’s an irritatingly sunny early afternoon, and Tony has a pair of sunglasses on so he can keep his eyes on the road without his eyes frying like eggs on asphalt. Meanwhile, Peter’s squinting aggressively, the bright light from outside just partially blocked by the car visor. 

They’re driving through a smaller street, narrower but thankfully much more peaceful. There’s not even that many pedestrians – it’s a rather hot day and most people are probably melted against their air conditioners, or at least staying out of the sun’s way. Tony has black dress pants on and his thighs are kind of burning.

“My palms are sweating,” Peter says. “The steering wheel is wet. My shirt is wet and I am _sticky_.”

Yeah, Tony can tell. There’s spots where Peter’s navy t-shirt are a little darker, evidently damp. As insultingly warm as it is outside, the car AC is on full blast and even with a blazer it’s almost enough to make Tony shiver.

But boy is the kid ever sweaty, despite the fact that he’s been weaving through intersections and practicing turns, lane switching – whatever else – for the past half-hour without any major hitches. 

Exasperated but fond, he tells Peter just that.

“Mr. Stark, the first time I drove I flipped the car over.”

What?

“What?”

Peter grits his teeth. At the rate he’s going the kid is going to file down his own molars to dust. He’s too young for dentures. “I,” he repeats, slowing down as the light turns yellow, foot gentle on the brake, “flipped the car over.”

Tony has no recollection of this. “The fuck? When?”

The teenager sighs, looking over to Tony now that the car is at a complete stop. His nostrils flare a bit. “Uh. Toomes.”

Peter proceeds to give a stilted explanation about borrowing a fancy car from that annoying classmate of his – Flash – to reach Toomes, because webslinging isn’t much use in the suburbs. Needless to say, Flash never got his car back.

Tony whistles. He and Peter have had their fair share of talks about the Vulture and all related incidents – from promises to make communication a two-way street, Peter recalling his nightmares about being crushed by tonnes of cement while Tony listened with guilt bubbling in his abdomen – but new parts of the story still seemed to crop up every now and then.

“Jeez, kiddo, your homecoming night was just a gift that kept on giving, huh?”

“I guess,” is the reply. “So – not too eager about the car thing.”

“Well, you did steer an entire plane afterwards." 

If that was meant to be placating, to help Peter properly differentiate between how much danger he and Tony are actually in – which is blessedly low, at the moment, compared to everything else – Tony isn’t sure it’s actually working. He hasn’t quite mastered pep talks, just yet.

“You know,” Peter blurts, “My parents died in a plane crash.”

Okay. Okaaay. Tony _didn’t_ know that.

“Wow,” Tony replies. “Mine were, ah, in a car.”

“We’re in a car _right now_, Mr. Stark.”

“Sure are.”

Peter laughs. It’s not amused – more out of sheer nervousness than anything, like the rest of this incredibly strange conversation.

“Hah. Dead parents gang,” he says.

Then he lets out an audible gulp, eyes going wide. “Oh, God, Mr. Stark, that’s insensitive – I am _so_ sorry –”

Tony snorts, not the least bit mad. He kind of loves this disaster of a kid. Just a little. “All good, underoos,” he soothes, “little gallows humour never hurt anyone.”

“I guess,” Peter replies, relieved that he hadn’t pissed Tony off.

They drive for a few more minutes before Peter takes too long to make a left and gets honked at for maybe the millionth time since he’s fired up the ignition.

The kid huffs, pouting. “Mr. Stark, can I _please_ park somewhere. Please, oh my God.”

“You have my blessing.”

Peter exhales a dramatic sigh and goes into a fast food restaurant’s lot, sliding tentatively into one of the spots closer to the main entrance. It takes a good minute and a half and they’re going at a snail’s pace, but Peter gets the car snugly in between a minivan and a beat-up Corolla without any assistance, pulls the e-brake and switches the car off. Afterwards, he just slumps into his seat and puts his face in his hands.

If Tony is being honest, this session didn’t actually go badly. The kid had clearly read up on traffic rules – or May had already drilled them in from the sparse lessons she had given herself – and despite his apparent history with vehicles, today was a relatively smooth ride.

Alright then. Time for some support and wholesome encouragement. “Good work, Pete,” Tony says.

The older man is rewarded with a tight but genuine smile. “Um, thank you.”

Tony opens the door of his side of the car, checking the distance between the tires and the parking space line. “Nice parking job, too, you’re getting the hang of it.”

Peter preens a bit from where he’s slouching. He’s quite comfortable snarking at Tony, these days, but it’s always playful and the undercurrent of admiration is perpetually there if Tony looks hard enough.

“I guess we can call you,” Tony continues, because he needs to kill the mood now, “Peter _Parker_.”

“Holy shit, _stop_.”

**Author's Note:**

> anyway this whole fic was written because i wanted to bring one (1) pun to life and somehow that got padded by about 1.3k words 
> 
> hope this was a fun read tho : )


End file.
